


Metamorphmagus

by excentrykemuse



Series: Willow Series [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Metamorphmagus, Metamorphmagus Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 18:29:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excentrykemuse/pseuds/excentrykemuse
Summary: When Harriet Potter disappeared, everyone assumed she was traveling.  Little did they know that she was a metamorphmagus and was waiting to return to England under an assumed identity.  fem!Harry/Draco





	Metamorphmagus

Blacks were not only born: they were made. It was a little known fact that Nymphadora Tonks was in fact Lady Nymphadora Black. The metamorphmagus gene had manifested itself in her at a young age and she was entitled to the Black—and indeed any other—family name. She could have been Lady Nymphadora Rosier after her maternal grandmother, if she so wished. With this gift also came the position of being a Lady in society. She would not be the Lady of a House, such as her aunt Narcissa was Lady Malfoy, but a Lady born of a house, such as the Ladies Lacerta and Iolanthe Malfoy, Lord and Lady Malfoy’s daughters. Before her gift had manifested, Nymphadora had no title at all because her mother had been disinherited and her father was a simple Muggle-born.

Nymphadora Tonks had this all explained to her when she was five years old. However, she hadn’t much cared. She was proud of being just plain Nymphadora Tonks, and Nymphadora Tonks she had remained, although whispers followed her throughout her Auror training program.

Harriet Potter’s grandmother was Dorea Black, but she didn’t know this. In fact, she knew next to nothing about her own family. She didn’t even know she was a metamorphmagus. Thinking it was an odd coincidence of fate, her hair always grew long when her Aunt Petunia cut it short like a boy’s. When she would wake up with it messy, it would always form into soft curls by the time she was up and cooking breakfast for the Dursleys. When she had fancied it straight for the Yule Ball, it had straightened for her with just a brush of her comb. Unbenownst to her, her scar was sometimes hidden from view, but she thought it was hiding under her fringe. It wasn’t. It was simply gone.

Imagine everyone’s surprise when she was seventeen and taken by snatchers and she had morphed into a girl with golden hair, brown eyes, and a round face. She looked nothing like herself.

“What spell is that?” Hermione whispered when they were alone in a cellar at Malfoy Manor. “You are Harriet Potter, aren’t you?”

“Of course, I am!” Harriet repeated hotly. “Who else would I be?”

It got her thinking after the war. There was all this publicity, all the fame, and some purebloods were deriding her because she was simply Miss Harriet Potter because her mother was a Muggle-born.

That was when she began researching what she was. She began to quiz Tonks about being a metamorphmagus and what exactly that meant and then, finally, one day she disappeared.

Her disappearance went at first unnoticed. Everyone thought that she was simply being a recluse. Then she didn’t go to events in her honor, or even to Quidditch matches of her friend Oliver Wood. She wasn’t seen in Diagon Alley and a real panic began. Harriet Potter was missing.

The Aurors were called and the disappearance made headlines for weeks until finally, when nothing was found, the news died down. It was just accepted that Harriet had probably gone off on her own accord. There was, after all, no evidence of foul play. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was boarded up and everyone but her closest friends forgot about her.

Then there was a stirring in France. A strange beauty had been spotted, tall and slim, with long brown hair and piercing blue eyes. She was invited to all the French Ministry events and spoke French with an English accent. She said her name was Lady Helène Peverell.

Immediately Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, dispatched an invitation to the heiress of one of the oldest families of the British Islands. At first there was no response. Then, a masked owl arrived and accepted the invitation—specifically the opening dinner to the school year at Hogwarts.

The press was elated. One of the daughters of Britain was coming home. Songs were written in her honor and when she arrived on a Muggle ocean liner, there were reporters from The Daily Prophet to snap her photograph and Minister Shacklebolt himself to welcome her.

Helène breathed in the air of her home country. She hadn’t been in Britain in two years and was now twenty. An old maid, by pureblood standards.

Still, she wasn’t sure if she meant to marry. During all her time in France, first at the Sorbonne learning French under a different identity, and then at the Ministry, no one had caught her eye. No one since—

But that didn’t bear thinking about. He hated her. He had since first year when she refused to shake his hand.

Seeing her old friend Kingsley, she tried to keep a calm face with only the hint of a smile on it. This would be hard, she realized, seeing all the friends she once had when she was Harriet Potter.

“Minister Shacklebolt,” she greeted, using the posh accent she had perfected over the years. “What a pleasure to meet you.” She offered him her hand, as equals, but instead he picked it up and let it hover just beneath his lips before releasing it. An old pureblood custom.

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Helène. Won’t you come this way?” They posed for more photographs and Helène was glad that she had worn robes despite traveling on a Muggle vessel. Her hair was swept back from her smooth forehead in an elegant twist, in the custom of pureblood women who never let their hair down except in the presence of family.

Surprisingly, she was housed with Hermione Granger. “She’s one of our rising stars,” Kingsley explained. “She works in the Magical Creatures Department for Creature rights, but we have our eye on her.”

“I see,” she said, looking over the tidy flat and noticed the door opened to the room where she would be sleeping. It seemed Hermione and Ron hadn’t gotten married directly after the war, after all.

She smiled at Hermione. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The words, once so foreign, fell off her tongue. She had been coached how to be a proper lady of society.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m sure you’re used to house elves, but I don’t believe in the enslavement of innocent creatures.” Ever the activist, then. 

“I think I can find my way around a kitchen,” Helène offered, much to the obvious surprise of Kingsley and Hermione. Harriet Potter had cooked for the Dursleys for seventeen years, after all.

“Well, I’ll leave you to unpack. I’ll be back for you at seven p.m. sharp.”

Helène nodded to him before looking at Hermione. “Well, I guess I better get started then.” She turned to leave, but then Hermione spoke.

“Where have you been all these years? You were never at Hogwarts. Were you at Beauxbatons?”

“No. I had private tutors.” At least for the last couple of years. “And are you going to Hogwarts tonight?”

Hermione blushed. “No, I’m not part of the formal delegation.”

“I see,” Helène said. She supposed it would only be her and the Minister of Magic. Perhaps the Undersecretary. “Do you know who is going?”

“Minister Shacklebolt and Lord Malfoy.”

Helène raised her eyebrows. Why would Lucius be going there?

Sensing Helène’s thoughts, Hermione persisted, “After the late Lord Malfoy passed, the current Lord Malfoy gained his seat, along with the seat of Lord Black. He’s made quite an impression in the Wizengamot and many believe he will be Chief Warlock in a few decades. He was a classmate of mine at Hogwarts.” Displeasure coated her tone of voice. She must be talking of Draco Malfoy.

“I take it you were not friends?”

“You could say that. Anyway, his wedding is the talk of the season. Anyone who’s anyone is invited, even me, surprisingly enough, and I’m a Muggle-born.”

“I’ll be sure to offer him my congratulations.” There it was again, the proper society dialogue rolling off her tongue. One offered the groom ‘congratulations,’ the bride ‘felicitations.’

“Hmm.”

Helène had a wand from France. It was also phoenix feather but hawthorn, the wood used in Draco Malfoy’s wand, strangely enough. She used it to iron out the creases of her gowns and robes as she unpacked. She didn’t want to favor a particular house in color, and so she opted for ivory. The under-dress was lace and came up to the collar bone, while the over robe was made of acramantula silk, with long medieval sleeves that reached to the ground and a hood that could come up and shade her features. It tied together with a cord of brocade.

She left her hair as it was, though she strung a white ribbon through it. White pearl earrings finished the outfit perfectly.

Kingsley arrived at the appointed time and the two Apparated to Hogsmeade. Helène was grateful that her white slippers had a dust repelling charm on them as she made her way up to the castle. When she arrived, Draco Malfoy was already waiting for them.

The Peverell line was thought to have died out centuries ago but due to its ancient nature it was probably considered on par with the Malfoy family. Draco, though, sketched her a gallant bow. She offered him her hand.

“Lady Helène,” he greeted. “An honor.”

“The honor is mine, Lord Malfoy. I hear that you hold two seats on the Wizengamot. Quite a feat, if I am not mistaken.”

“Thank you,” he said, pulling out a seat for her. The professors were looking at her in curiosity and she noticed that Headmistress McGonagall in particular was glancing at her. “I try to be of use during the Reconstruction.”

“Yes, the Reconstruction,” she said, wondering of how much use Draco actually was. Harriet had spoken for him and his family at their trial, but Helène wondered how much he had mended his ways—whether he was a true reformer or a traditionalist.

She decided to test him. “What is your position on purebloods?” she asked, swirling her butterbeer. She was surprised that the professors didn’t drink elven wine or something.

He looked at her carefully. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The little I know of the Reconstruction is that it meant to give Muggle-borns more rights that perhaps infringed on pureblood traditions and agendas. You’re a member of the Wizengamot. Where do you stand?”

“I stand with magic,” he answered archly.

“That’s not an answer,” she observed. 

“I think that this is not a conversation for Hogwarts, or for new friends.” His gray eyes hardened at her. Well, if that was the tactic he was going to take, that was the tactic he was going to take.

“To new friends,” she said, offering him her glass. How this reminded her of the time when Harriet Potter refused his hand on the Hogwarts Express. Here she was, a different person, and her way out of her life had been through pureblood laws and traditions.

He clinked his glass against hers. “To new friends.”

His gray eyes shown out to her and she looked at for them a moment. She wasn’t quite an expert on eyes, but she realized they were different than Harriet godfather’s eyes. His had been a darker gray, smokier. These were—well, not silver—but lighter, crisper. Perhaps he had inherited them from Lucius? She seemed to remember he had gray eyes?

Helène didn’t realize she was staring until Draco took her glass from her carefully and she turned away from him and recollected herself. 

When Helène looked back, he was still observing him. “I must confess,” she admitted, “that French politics are rather baffling. I spent an entire set with one wizard—a dancing set--,” she qualified, “where he tried to explain to me the different between a Beauxbatons student with Veela mother or a Veela father. Apparently, they have different accommodations.”

“I imagine,” Draco stated carefully, “this is not of personal concern?” He glanced at her and made a motion behind them and it seemed they were actually served elven wine, much to Helène’s appreciation. 

“Indeed not,” she agreed with a small smile. “I confess I have no creature blood to my knowledge. It would greatly surprise me.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “They say that all magic comes from the children of the fallen angels—the Nephilim. That is a little less than human, Lady Helène.”

A full smile erupted on her lips. “But not creature,” she argued. “One has to wonder how long ago that was.”

However, his gaze seemed to be drifting past her.

She turned toward the Slytherin table but saw nothing amiss. “Lord Malfoy?”

“Forgive me,” he apologized, his eyes glittering again, making her stomach twist. Draco was always out of reach, first when she was Harriet Potter, and now when she was Lady Helène, he was engaged to be married. 

Helène could reach out so easily and tuck his hair behind his ear and they would be lost for just a few seconds with each other before reality would come crashing in. She would prove herself to be uncouth and would leave in disgrace—the students might write home to their parents. It would be an unmitigated disaster.

Helène, however, was perhaps not completely surprised when the invitation to Malfoy Manor came the next day. She remembered the last time she was there, no, when Harriet Potter was there, with blonde hair and blue eyes, where no one could identify her as a Muggle-born, half-blood, or pureblood. In retrospect it was all rather amusing.

Dowager Malfoy was present. Narcissa had always been beautiful, with blonde hair and delicate features and, of course, the gray eyes of a Black. She was, naturally, to serve as chaperone. A single lady could not call on a single gentleman, after all.

After being introduced, Helène sat down to tea. Narcissa was sitting off to the side, away from the conversation, while Draco sat next to her. It was rather intimate as they were on a loveseat, but Helène didn’t really mind. She was surprised, however, to see a wrapped package next to the tea set. “Is this—Is this for me?” she stammered in confusion. That was unlike her. It was more like Harriet Potter.

“Yes,” Draco admitted.

The gift was small, in the shape of a jewelry box, and wrapped in gold paper. Gold was the paper of a Peverell courtship. She narrowed her eyes. Thinking that perhaps it was an unlucky coincidence, she reached forward and delicately unwrapped the present. It was, in fact, a jewelry box. She opened it and dropped it immediately.

Draco fortunately—or unfortunately—caught it. It must have been his Seeker reflexes. “Do you not like it?” he asked, though his tone betrayed that there was no fathomable reason that she wouldn’t like it.

“No, it’s beautiful,” she admitted. “I thought that you were engaged. Invitations have already gone out…”

“Cancelled as soon as you put this lovely bracelet on your delicate wrist,” Draco said confidently.

Helène looked at him hard. “I—“ she floundered. “What do you think of the reforms for Muggle-borns?”

“Honestly?” he asked. “I thought we discussed this last night.”

She simply stared at him.

Carefully he admitted, “I think they’re a waste of time. The reason why the war was fought was because purebloods were not having their voices heard in the Wizengamot. If we continue to ignore pureblood traditions and rites, even at the earliest levels of childhood at Hogwarts, then we may as well be preparing for another war.”

“I read that you were a Death Eater.”

He flinched almost imperceptibly. “While it was not my choice, some of the Dark Lord’s ideas had merits. Others, of course, did not.”

“No, they certainly didn’t.” She looked at the pearl bracelet. It was exquisite. Could she accept an offer of courtship from Draco Malfoy, the boy who had disarmed Dumbledore and had been sent to kill him by Lord Voldemort? The boy Harriet Potter had nearly killed with Sectumsempra? The boy who had always hated Harriet Potter but had piqued her interest when she should have been interested in other boys?

She looked over to Narcissa. “What do you think, Dowager Malfoy?”

Narcissa looked up from her needlepoint. “I want my son to be happy. He thinks he can be happier with you than he can be with Lady Astoria Greengrass.”

Helène didn’t recognize the name. She remembered a Daphne Greengrass, a girl who had been in Slytherin in her year, so this girl must be some relation.

This all seemed so unreal. Draco Malfoy wanted to marry her. “I’m a metamorphmagus Black,” she found herself confessing, at a loss at what else to do. “I took my family name of Peverell from my genealogy because Black would be too easy to associate with—who I once was.”

Narcissa dropped her needlepoint. “This isn’t what you look like?”

“No,” she admitted. “And no one will ever see my other face.” She peeked a look at Draco. He seemed intrigued.

“Well, whoever you were, you’re Lady Helène Peverell now,” he said decisively. “Your blood cannot be denied.”

“You are so strange,” Helène admitted. “You’re not even going to pry into my secret?”

“No.” He licked his lips. “You are a strong woman who seems to agree about pureblood rights, at least marginally, otherwise you would have argued with me. I want to marry you, Lady Helène.”

“And when the next new and shiny Lady Someone turns up? Will you cancel our wedding once our invitations have gone out?” It was a valid concern. 

“I’ll swear an unbreakable oath that if you agree to marry me, I will go through with it, my lady.”

And he did just that, with Narcissa as the binder of the vow, Draco swore to her that he would not leave her. She then let him clasp the bracelet around her wrist and stared at it, a little in shock. 

“I had not thought of marriage,” she confessed. “Now I suppose I must wrap my mind around it.”

He kissed her goodbye, just a hint of lips brushing against lips, but she put her hand up against his cheek. 

“I’m staying with Hermione Granger,” she informed him. “I’m sure you can sort out the address, because I’m not quite certain where it is myself.”

She wasn’t at all surprised when the announcement that the Malfoy-Greengrass wedding had been called off arrived the next day. Hermione had looked at it strangely and muttered, “There’s Malfoy for you.” She’d nearly screamed when he’d Apparated into her apartment three days later, an ivory rose in his hands. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see Lady Helène, of course.”

“You’re here to see—“ Helène was standing in the doorway in pale blue robes that complimented her eyes. Fortunately her hair was up in a bun. “Oh, no. Tell me you haven’t, Helène.”

“Haven’t what?”

“You called off your wedding for someone with higher social currency!” Hermione shouted in Draco’s face. “That’s low, even for you. And you,” she turned to Helène, “you haven’t been in the country for a week! Were none of the French wizards good enough for you?”

She shook her head. “They’re far too progressive in France.”

“Far too progressive?”

“They’re practically socialists.” 

Draco laughed at that. “You’ve got to admit, Granger, the magical government is socialist. I heard the Muggle government is almost fascist.”

“Hmm,” Helène answered.

It was evening and he brought her to a glade that he said was in New Forest. Dowager Malfoy was there, sitting on a rock, wearing pale pink robes that highlighted her features. Another visit with a chaperone. Draco was playing all his cards right.

They stuck to the tree line, with Draco’s hand around her waist and his lips to her ear. “Fairies are said to come out at night,” he explained. “We can only hope we’ll be so lucky.”

Helène turned to him and their noses were almost touching. Draco was not exactly handsome, with his pointed features and gray eyes. He looked a great deal like his father, actually.

“What happened to your father?” she dared to ask. “You’re terribly young to be the Lord of your own House.”

“Mother doesn’t like to talk about it,” Draco admitted. “But a Muggle-born shot him in Diagon Alley with what they call a gun. In her statement at her trial, she said it was retribution for all he had done as a Death Eater.”

“How horrible,” she murmured. “I hope it was quick and relatively painless.”

“Yes. She shot him through the head. He was dead within thirty seconds.” Thirty seconds of pain could be a long time. Harriet Potter had known this, having been held under the Cruciatus Curse. Fortunately, Lady Helène Peverell had never had the same experience.

They watched as night fell and then, just there, there was a speck of blue light. It flitted through the trees and was soon joined by a flash of pink, then yellow, then green, until the glade was filled with tiny beating wings and magical light.

“How beautiful,” she murmured and, drawn to the pulsing of the fairy magic, she walked out of Draco’s grasp and into the glade. The fairies lighted down onto her hair, teasing it out of its bun, until there were thick strands falling into her face. They flew around her, dainty and magnificent, tweaking her ear or brushing against her nose. Then, one by one, they flitted out of the glade again and were gone into the trees.

“By the gods!” Dowager Malfoy exclaimed, looking at Helène. “Draco, turn your back.” They could barely see each other in the trees, but he did so anyway, his shoulders broad and straight. “Come, dear, your hair. Don’t worry, I can’t see you.”

Carefully, Helène undid the pins in her hair and passed them to Dowager Malfoy before finally braiding her hair and twisting it into some semblance of a hairstyle.

“You can turn back, Draco,” Dowager Malfoy called. “I think it’s time to take Lady Helène back to that Muggle-born’s house.”

Helène wrapped herself in Draco’s embrace and felt him kiss her brow before they side-Apparated away.

“Your hair’s different,” Hermione noticed, her own bushy hair falling around her shoulders. “Aren’t purebloods supposed to keep their hair up?” She was lying on the sofa and had looked critically as Draco had run his hand down Helène’s cheek. He then Apparated away.

“Some fairies had a different idea,” she confessed breezily, walking toward her room. She thumped onto the bed and giggled. She remembered the way the fairy light had fallen on Draco’s awed face and the gentle way he had held her. She had never felt so precious before in her life.

“Helène, snap out of it!” Hermione commanded from the doorway.

Helène turned to her. “Snap out of what?”

“He’s just going to break your heart, you know. I heard that Astoria Greengrass hasn’t been seen since the engagement was broken off. He’ll do the same to you.”

“No he won’t,” she countered. “He swore an Unbreakable Vow to me.”

Hermione sucked in her breath. “He couldn’t possibly have.”

“Well, he did. He can never leave me. I could, of course, leave him, but I don’t want to at the moment.”

“You know, there’s supposed to be an interview in The Daily Prophet with Iolanthe Malfoy. She’s a few years younger than Astoria Greengrass but the two are supposed to be great friends.”

“Who’s Iolanthe Malfoy?”

Hermione actually snorted. “You don’t know? You, who have an Unbreakable Vow from Malfoy himself, don’t know that he has two sisters?”

Helène looked at her blankly. She had never seen this side of her friend—no, Harriet Potter’s friend—before. Yes, she had been bossy, but never cruel about someone else’s ignorance.

“Do you even know old he is?”

“About twenty,” she supposedly guessed. “My age.”

“My God, have you told him? You’re old by pureblood standards!” Her voice was full of derision and Helène couldn’t stand it.

“Just shut up!” she snapped, reverting back to the vocabulary of Harriet Potter. “Shut up, shut up!” Standing from her bed, she twirled on her heel and Apparated to Malfoy Manor. They’d been out in the fairy glade until past two in the morning, and now it was even later.

The place was eerie at night. The white peacocks shone brightly against the landscape and the manor was tall and imposing. Knowing what she was doing was against pureblood etiquette, she marched up to the door and knocked, hoping a house elf would hear her.

No one answered the door.

She waited for two minutes and then knocked again.

Still, no answer. 

Backing away from the house, she saw that a window was lit on the third floor. There was plenty of gravel at her feet and if she could just throw a stone at the right angle—Her third attempt hit the mark. And the fifth, sixth, and ninth. Finally, the window opened. The young face of a witch appeared, her blonde tresses hastily put up into a bun, her blue eyes narrowing. “Don’t you know it’s three in the morning?”

“Yes, and I apologize,” Helène said, “but I really need to speak to Lord Malfoy and no one’s answering the door.”

“Couldn’t you have floo’d in?”

“The place I’m staying doesn’t have a floo,” she admitted. Hermione was apparently against the things. “I Apparated here.”

“Who are you? And you better have the right answer, otherwise I’m calling the Aurors.”

Helène smiled. “Lady Helène Peverell.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Lady Lacerta Malfoy, your future sister-in-law if Draco doesn’t go and do something stupid this time around. I’ll get him for you.”

“I thank you.” There it was again. The purchased breeding.

Helène didn’t have long to wait. Draco appeared at the front door in a dressing gown, his hair wonderfully mussed. “Lady Helène, are you all right? Lacerta said you were throwing pebbles at her window.”

“May I come in?”

“We don’t have a chaperone.” 

Lacerta came up behind them. “I’m already awake and I’m over seventeen. I’ll chaperone.”

Draco ushered Helène inside, taking her hand. He didn’t let go. They went up to a study which had a portrait of Lucius Malfoy staring down imperiously at her. “Ah, so this is the replacement,” the portrait said, but Draco hushed him with a wave of his hand.

There were two plush chairs in front of an oak desk and Draco led her to them. Lacerta placed herself by the cold fireplace.

“Lady Helène, please, tell me what is wrong. You’ve been crying.”

Helène looked at him, shocked, before bringing her free hand up to her wet cheeks. “I hadn’t realized. It’s just—Hermione was so cruel.”

“You shouldn’t let that Muggle-born hurt you.” It sounded as if he wanted to spit out the word ‘Mudblood’ but didn’t for propriety’s sake. “What did she say?”

“She mocked me for not knowing that you have two sisters. Do you have any brothers?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s just me, Lacerta, and Iolanthe. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about them. It’s just most of wizarding England knows because of my position as Lord Malfoy, so I didn’t think.”

She nodded. “I just—she then taunted me for being old for a pureblood. I hadn’t thought about it. Not really. I’ve just spent the last few years in seclusion that age didn’t seem to matter. I never really ever celebrated my birthday, even when I was a child.”

Draco looked at her perceptively. “You’re twenty, aren’t you?”

“I won’t say that I’m not.”

“She should have had a baby or two by now,” Lucius’s portrait was saying. “Astoria was already pushing it at eighteen.”

“Father, not now,” Draco chided, his hand still wrapped around Helène’s.

“I’ll walk away if you want me to,” she promised. “I just—I thought you should know before this gets any further. I’m not some blushing maiden just out of Beauxbatons.”

“I’m twenty,” Draco admitted. “And I don’t care when your birthday is. When is it exactly?”

“February twenty-first.” It was the day she slipped away. 

“You’re only older than me by four months and there have been worse obstacles. All that matters is that you’re here, in the present, with me. And I’ll try to remember that you don’t know what’s common knowledge in England. Also,” he stood up, pulling her with him, “I won’t stand for you staying in that horrible apartment with that accursed witch. You’ll stay here, in Iolanthe’s suite. I know she won’t mind.”

“But I can’t—“

“But you can,” he said firmly. “You’ll be right next door to Lacerta, and I’m two floors up in the Master Suite so there will be both chaperones and plenty of propriety. You’re our guest now.”

“I don’t even know how long I’m staying in England,” she said as one final protest.

“Indefinitely, if I can help it. Now, come, you need your sleep. Lacy will lend you something to wear.”

Helène got lost on her way to the breakfast room the next morning. She had to summon a house elf to guide her and then she was late. All eyes were on her from the table. “Good morning,” she murmured to no one in particular. “Is that this morning’s Prophet?”

Draco was staring at it rather hard; it was crumpled where he clasped it in his hands.

“Lady Iolanthe’s report not that favorable then?”

“How did you know?” Dowager Malfoy asked, stunned. It was clear that it had been a surprise to her.

Helène took a sip of tea. “Hermione Granger might have mentioned something last night.”

“Of course,” Draco muttered darkly, “she was friends with Miss Lavender Brown who writes for the society pages.”

Hermione hadn’t been friends with Lavender but they had bonded over the fact that Ron was clueless over the fact that they fancied him. They should have been bitter rivals but, strangely, they weren’t.

“Hmm,” was all Helène said. She managed to get hold of the copy of the paper later that morning when no one was looking at her. It was rather sympathetic toward Lady Astoria Greengrass and suggested that whoever had stolen her brother’s heart away at the eleventh hour was rather heartless herself.

“You shouldn’t be reading that,” Lacerta asserted, holding out her hand.

“It’s not like I’m not familiar with bad press,” she told the other witch, remembering how Harriet Potter’s name had been torn to pieces fifth year after Cedric Diggory had died during the Triwizard Tournament.

Lacerta looked like she was about to question her when Draco walked in. “Lady Helène, might you join me for lunch at The White Witch?”

“The White Witch? What’s that?”

“It’s a pureblood restaurant, my dear, entirely made out of magical glass.” That meant that there were no seams, just one solid sheet. How remarkable. “It’s extremely exclusive.”

“Are you making a statement about the article?” Helène asked cautiously. “I won’t be used in a tug of war.”

“I simply want to show you off,” he promised. “And you deserve to see wizarding London at its best.”

Helène looked at him dubiously.

“Come, Lady Helène,” Lacerta said. “I’ll help you pick out some suitable robes. Your trunks arrived this morning with our house elf.”

“Darling, your studies,” Narcissa reminded her daughter. It turned out Lacerta was a seventh year, but had opted to be tutored at home instead of spending another year at Hogwarts.

“They can wait half an hour,” Lacerta replied breezily. “Now, come. I bet you look simply marvelous in red.”

In the end, Lacerta dressed her in brown robes with streaks of blue, green, gold, and dark pink in them. The underdress was a dark pink and fell to the floor. “Are you sure this isn’t—lacking?” Helène asked, staring at herself in the mirror.

“It’s understated, yes, but it’s very beautiful.”

“Perhaps I should put on the violet one.”

“No, no, this one,” Lacerta demanded. “I’m sure Draco will agree with me.”

“Lord Malfoy can’t come into the room to disagree or agree with either of us,” Helène pointed out. She traced a thin line on her forehead where the lightning bolt scar used to be. Remembering the terror of the night visions that had assaulted Harriet Potter, she shivered.

Lacerta didn’t notice. “Come, come, I insist. We’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

The White Witch was even more beautiful than Helène had imagined. It was domed so that you could see the sky, which today was filled with clouds. Their table was at the center of the dome, but Helène was not ignorant. All the patrons were craning their necks to see her and whispering behind the backs of their hands.

The food was a little too rich for Helène, so she ended up moving it about her plate to the point where Draco noticed. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll make myself sick if I eat this,” she admitted. “I’m used to simple living.”

“We can go to The Leaky Cauldron next,” he offered. “I don’t particularly care for it, but you can get fish and chips or a steak pie.”

Helène beamed at him. “I’d love that.”

A reporter took their photograph as they were wending down Diagon Alley and the paper the next day proclaimed that Lord Malfoy was out with his “mystery witch.”

“Well, they should be able to put the pieces together soon enough,” Narcissa said. “Her picture’s been all over the political pages of The Prophet since she arrived here.”

That night Draco had hired a lute player and the doors of the ballroom were opened for the first time in over a decade. He took Helène’s hands and led her in blindfolded. She gasped when she saw the chandelier above them and the marble floor beneath her feet.

Narcissa and Lacerta sat in a corner, neither pretending not to pay attention.

The lute started up and Helène turned into Draco’s arms, dancing the memorized steps that she had been taught just over a year and a half ago. As he held her close against him, she could feel his heart beating against her chest, and she smiled at him when he stole a kiss.

In the end he had grabbed her hand and run with her out into the garden, and held her against him as he kissed her deeply but carefully. He pulled back, looking for any sign that she might not want him, but she leaned forward and claimed his lips again. It was with a cough that they pulled apart, though her hand was still tucked away in Draco’s.

“Don’t forget I remember what it was like to be young and courting,” Narcissa said, amused. “Now, I’ll let you walk Lady Helène to her chamber and say ‘goodnight,’ but that’s all, Draco.” She turned on her heel and left them.

Helène couldn’t stifle her giggles.

Draco kissed her again at her door, long and sweet, and Helène held him to her and smelled his hair above his ear. “Are you going to grow it out? Like your father?” she asked, pulling away. She knew many purebloods grew out their hair, but Draco’s hair remained as short as it had been at Hogwarts.

“I haven’t decided. The title’s still so new—“

“Of course,” she murmured.

“What would you prefer?” His gray eyes looked at her hopefully, perhaps wishing that she had an opinion.

Out of habit, all she could see Draco with was short hair. However, he was a grown man now and this was the start of a new life together. “Long,” she finally decided. “You can always cut it short if you don’t like it.”

“I won’t go to the barber next week, then,” he promised. “There is a lengthening potion but it’s always so unpredictable, and hair can be brittle.”

“Then do it naturally. There’s no rush,” she promised him.

She danced into her room, away from prying eyes, and fell onto her bed with a gasp. Helène was happy, actually happy, for the first time in her life. She laughed at the strangeness of it all. She, Helène Peverell, happy with Draco Malfoy!

Smiling, she skipped to the breakfast table the next morning and was surprised to see that Draco wasn’t there.

“Poor Astoria committed suicide last night,” Narcissa said. “Draco’s been called in to give evidence.”

Pain erupted in her heart. She had killed someone. Actually killed someone. And not as Harriet Potter fighting Lord Voldemort, but as Lady Helène Peverell. She hadn’t realized she was crying until Narcissa’s arms snaked around her shoulders.

“Hush now, you mustn’t blame yourself,” she murmured. “Draco wasn’t happy in the relationship. He would have found some pretense to get out of it before the wedding ceremony. He often talked about it.”

“Is that what I am, a pretense?” she choked. “By the gods.”

“No, no, you’re not. I’ve never seen Draco so happy. He blushes like a schoolboy whenever your name is mentioned.”

Helène spent the rest of the day in her sitting room, pretending to read Shakespeare. When there was a knock on the door, she intoned “Come in” without really thinking about it.

“Darling,” Draco whispered, taking a hesitant step forward. “I had to see you.”

“Lord Malfoy, shouldn’t we have a chaperone?”

“I don’t care about that,” he stepped forward and dropped to his knees in front of her. Then, carefully, he laid his head in her lap. “Don’t send me away.”

Hesitating, she began to stroke his hair rhythmically. “Would you like me to read to you?”

“Anything, Lady Helène, I just want to be near you.”

And so Helène turned to the fourth act of Romeo and Juliet, reading of the two lovers arguing over whether or not they heard the lark or the nightingale. She continued to stroke Draco’s hair, pausing now and again when she got caught up in the lyrical poetry, but then her hand would rest comfortingly on his head. They stayed like that for hours while she summoned various plays and read the love scenes to him, but she knew he wasn’t really listening. 

When a house elf came to tell them dinner was served, Draco clutched to her robes, clearly not wanting to move. Making a decision, she told the elf to bring dinner to her rooms, and she hoped Narcissa wouldn’t make anything of it.

“Come,” she whispered. “Come sit by me.”

Carefully, Draco disengaged himself from her and then sat beside her on the couch. A small coffee table was in front of them. He grasped her hand and kissed the back of it. She smiled at him. It was horrible seeing this side of Draco Malfoy, but she was glad to know that he was still human, like everyone else.

“I’m going to the Wizengamot Thursday,” he said carefully. “Would you like to come see it? You’d have to sit in the gallery, but you’d be my personal guest.”

Their dinner appeared before them but neither of them made a move to touch it.

“Are you sure you’re ready to go out by then? After everything?” Tears were now forming at the corner of her eyes, and he brushed them away.

“A Malfoy is always prepared,” he quoted. “We never let our guard down.” However, he had let it down for her, and for that she was grateful. Kissing his cheek, she breathed in his scent again before pulling away.

The Wizengamot was chaos. Its members stood from their seats, waving parchments and shouting at the Chief Warlock, and Draco was no different. He was a platinum blond head against grays and browns. Helène was seated in the chair designated for guests of the House of Malfoy. Beside her, in the chair for the House of Black, was Narcissa, ever the chaperone.

Narcissa hadn’t said a word about Draco and Helène’s absence from dinner. In fact, Helène wasn’t even certain if Narcissa had known that Draco was home at the time. Still, she was thankful that nothing had been said. The hours stolen were too precious and private to be explained.

“Lord Malfoy!” the Chief Warlock finally exclaimed and all the other wizards sat down as Draco began his speech on the need for “wizard studies” at Hogwarts.

“Isn’t he just magnificent? He does his father proud,” Narcissa whispered. 

Helène could only smile.

Minister Shacklebolt invited Helène to a performance of some wizard playwrite’s new play the following Saturday. The invitation was only for one, but Helène wrote back asking for a second ticket. Kingsley had immediately agreed, and so Draco escorted her to the theatre.

She didn’t want to be without Draco in English society, she was still so unused to it, and Draco was adamant that they had nothing to hide, even after Astoria’s suicide. They should be proud to be a couple and should be seen as one.

Kingsley was shocked. He obviously didn’t read the society pages of The Prophet. “Lord Malfoy, I—“ He was at a loss for words.

“Minister Shacklebolt,” Draco greeted. “It’s a pleasure to see you outside of the Ministry.”

“I—yes. I had no idea the ticket was for you. I had thought it was for Hermione Granger.”

“Hermione Granger and I parted ways,” Helène informed him simply. “We had a disagreement about my relationship with Lord Malfoy.”

“Relationship. With Lord Malfoy.” Comprehension dawned on his face. “Then where are you staying?”

The curtain came up. “Shh,” Helène whispered. “I’ve never seen a play before.”

They were all over The Prophet the next day. The wild speculation over Helène’s past took up a good portion of the article, as well as Draco’s sordid history with Astoria. However, the columnist wondered if this were the political match made in heaven. He called Helène “a breath of fresh air” into England’s pureblood society and Draco “shrewd” for seeing the possibility of gaining the Peverell seat which had lain empty for so long in the Wizengamot. Women, after all, couldn’t hold seats, but their husbands could for them.

Overall, it was good press.

Draco insisted on being seen with her that very day and in a swirl of blue robes, he had taken her to a little bistro off of Diagon Alley.

“We’re very happy,” Helène told a young reporter who had come up to their table. “Aren’t we, Lord Malfoy?” 

He kissed the back of her hand in answer.

Later that week, he had taken her Pegasus riding on the Malfoy Abraxans. “I’ve only ever flown on a broom!” she announced, leaving out Buckbeak. “I don’t know how to ride side-saddle.”

“Allow me,” Draco said, lifting her into her seat. He arranged her legs while caressing them. “You know,” he began cautiously, “if I didn’t know any better, I would say you had designed yourself specifically to attract me.”

“And how would I know what would attract you, Lord Malfoy?”

He swung himself up into his saddle. “I don’t know. Perhaps you were watching me—throughout Hogwarts perhaps.”

Helène ignored the comment about Hogwarts. He was only grasping at straws. “Perhaps I made myself up to look like my ancestor, Ignotus Peverell.”

Draco looked up. “You have a portrait of him.”

“A sketch,” she admitted. “And before you ask, I won’t talk about the Hallows. At all.”

“Point taken.” He smirked at her. “I take it, then, that there’s something to know.”

“Suppose all you want.” She urged her Pegasus closer to him and reached out to straighten the tie he was wearing. He seemed to favor wearing them more than most wizards. She adjusted it. “Just know that I will always have secrets from you,” she murmured.

“You don’t trust me?” His voice was low and husky and he brought his horse closer to hers.

“Think of it this way. I remember a time when I wasn’t myself. It’s like I’ve been reincarnated and I try not to think about it.”

He brushed his lips against hers. “You can trust me, Harriet.”

She reared back as if slapped. The two stared at each other for a long time. Helène’s horse became restless. She tried to reel him in, but he cantered to the side.

“Hush,” Draco said, his Pegasus stepping close enough so Draco could grab the reins from Helène’s fingers. “He’s nervous because he can feel your nervousness. Forgive me, Lady Helène Peverell,” he said formally. “I thought we understood each other well enough for me to call you by that other name.”

Looking down, Helène’s mind raced as she tried to think of what to do. However, she could come up with nothing. She just kept on circling back to the fact that Draco knew, and she didn’t know what he was going to do with the information.

“My name is Helène Louise Peverell,” she finally stated as calmly as she could. She glanced up at him. “I will always be Helène Louise Peverell.”

She left the Manor before dinner. Leaving her trunks behind, she put on a pair of jeans and morphed into a petite girl with golden curls and light green eyes. Her nose was no more than a button and she gave herself full lips. Looking in the mirror, she realized she was pretty, but nothing special.

Just as she was about to Apparate away on the front lawn, a hand grabbed her arm. “Lady Helène, what do you think you’re doing?”

She turned to see Draco staring at her incredulously. “I need to get out. I’m suffocating.”

“No one’s suffocating you,” he argued, taking her in his arms. “Helène, please. I’m sorry. I will never mention that name in reference to you ever again. Please stay here. With me.” When she said nothing, looking down at her shoes, he sighed. “Haven’t you come to love me even just a little? I thought that you had.”

“It’s not that, Lord Malfoy,” he murmured, morphing back into Helène Peverell. She grimaced at the feeling of her bones growing. She picked off a piece of nonexistent lint from his robes. “I do love you.” She looked up at his eyes questioningly.

“I love you, too, Lady Helène, though that’s hardly the fashion.”

“You and Lady Astoria,” she guessed.

“Yes. I thought she might make a great mother to Malfoy heirs.” He fell silent. “Call me vain, but the Malfoys have always been blond. I was trying to ensure that.”

“Our children may not be blond,” she admitted. “You’ll never call me ‘Harriet’ again,” she stated firmly.

He held her closer. “I swear it,” he murmured as he leaned in to kiss her, soft and tentative.

She moaned and pulled him closer by his lapels. Their kiss deepened and they both pulled away breathless a few moments later.

Untangling his arms from around her, Draco pulled a small jewelry box from his inner pocket. “I meant to ask you after we went flying, but we never seemed to get the chance,” he laughed, his smile genuine. He fell on one knee, and opened the box to reveal a sapphire, the Peverell engagement stone. “Helène, will you do me the great honor of becoming my Lady Malfoy?” 

Squealing, she jumped into his arms. “Yes,” she said as Helène, not as Harriet. Harriet never would have agreed no matter her fascination. 

The ring was slipped onto Helène’s finger and she smiled at him. Without even looking for him, she had found her prince charming.

**THE END**


End file.
